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Indulge me, I'm reminiscing.
We're looking at an old film photo from the late 1970's. Kodachrome, just like the Paul Simon song.
This is Montana, before the river (and everyone else) ran through it.
The camera was set on self timer and rested on streamside rocks.

A selfie if you will. I was way ahead of todays kids and their cell phones.
More nimble and quicker then, I had ten seconds to run for the water while making the resulting shot look like I was fishing. I think that I was shooting around twelve feet of line. Backwards.
Back then my dry fly arsenal consisted of a few crudely tied Humpy's. Some folks called them Goofus Bugs. For me, matching the hatch was pretty simple. Open fly box. Ponder. Which one? Hmm... I think I'll pick a Humpy.
Graphite rods were in their infancy. I couldn't afford one made of bamboo by Orvis. So, the fly rod was fiberglass. I built it. Now really, who "builds" a fly rod? I just bought the blank from D…

Everyone should have one. A secret place where they can go and get away. Near or far. Easy to get to, or hard as hell. Others may know about it, or maybe no one (although few such places exist anymore.)
My Curtis Creek? It's a place that I fish infrequently. It takes a bit of effort making it to the water. There's some hiking involved. Then there's the blowdown. Most years, I'm content just knowing that it exists. Every once in a while though, I get the urge to return.
The first visit, I wet waded. Even in late August, the water was frigid. I caught fish, but, what I remember most, was the hours that it took to regain the feeling in my lower legs.
I went back a few years later. This time I packed waders. It was a bit too early in the season. The water ran swift. I didn't want to chance wading. Good move.

More years passed. I went back, as in a couple of days ago. The water was lower. It still ran fast. Did I mention that there's lots of blowd…